Blood and Tears
by antiskeptic01
Summary: Ginny Weasley: interior designer, hears voices in her head, has an over-protective vampire lover. Best friend: Colin, aka Etheliaberty, transvestite who eventually dies thanks to Ginny’s vampire. Draco Malfoy: the vampire, has a tendency to become over
1. Default Chapter

As Ginny stepped off the bus, its sleek exterior so out of place in this old-world countryside, she could feel her heart racing. She smiled and chastised herself for being so immature. It was just a castle. And a rickety old castle at that. Who was she kidding? It was barely recognizable as a building. Back home it would have been condemned, boarded up, and a dozen winos would be living in the basement. Still, it's dark facade contained more history than all of the buildings in America put together could ever hope to hold. For this dilapidated pile of rubble had once been the infamous Castle Dracula.  
  
So far, the tour had been kind-of disappointing. Ginny had been expecting peasants with crucifixes prominently displayed around their necks to cross themselves and refuse to answer her questions, whispering, "Don't go near the castle! The count awaits!" Instead, she found people all too willing to talk about the castle, and its most famous occupant, Vlad Dracula, Prince of Wallachia. After all, he was a local hero. A religious hero, no less! She thought one of the indignant locals was going to bean her with his cane when she called Dracula `Count'. She was promptly informed that the great man had not been a mere Count, he had been a Prince! No, things were definitely not as she, with the help of innumerable old movies, had imagined they would be.  
  
Ginny hated to admit it, but vampires were her obsession. Since the first grade when Tommy White, her first love, had shown up at school on Halloween with plastic fangs and red-food-coloring blood drops staining his bottom lip, Ginny had seen the vampire as the ultimate lover. Dark, mysterious, dangerous - a knight in caped armor who could offer an eternity of passion.  
  
Now, in the enlightened 90's, she thought, it was great that the rest of the world was finally catching up with her. Christopher Lee and Bela Lugosi, overactors who had done nothing for the romantic aspects of the vampire, were a thing of the past. Now Hollywood actually looked around for handsome leading men like Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt to play a vampire for the modern age. Books about the children of the night were pouring off the presses and she had read every one of them. Yes, the world had figured out what she had known since grade school - Vampires were sexy, all consuming, fantasies.  
  
Ginny had always wanted to come to the heart of vampirism, the `Old World' of Europe, and visit the sights that had inspired the first, most widely known, of all the vampire novels: Bram Stoker's Dracula. Transylvania - the land of mystery, where packs of wolves still roamed the mountainside. Well, at least she thought they did. And the peasants were still superstitious enough to make the sign of the cross at anything they didn't understand. But, her dream had seemed out of reach until... Colin, dear Colin, her best friend in the whole world since time immemorial. Since childhood, when boys didn't matter. Since puberty, when boys were the single most important things on the face of the Earth. The good old days.  
  
Colin worked like a dog (his words) for a travel agency. Since the day he had started there, he had been keeping an eye out for a tour that Ginny could afford. Finally, one had fit, barely, into Ginny's budget, (Who was she kidding? She was going to eat a lot of tuna casserole in the next year.) and she found herself on her way to the home of the vampire. Thanks to the Trans-Atlantic port-key, Ginny was ready to sign up to protest the plight of the sardine. On the plane, her knees had gotten on intimate terms with the seat in front of her for about 12 hours. There had actually been a line for the bathroom, she suspected the coffee had gone off, and once she had reached it, she wondered why Stephen King hadn't written a novel about one of those creepy little cubicles eating people.  
  
Once she had arrived in the picturesque town of Budapest, she realized why people used words like `picturesque'- a picture would be the preferable way to see them. Bathrooms were considered new-fangled ideas, therefore difficult to find and not the most pleasant experience when she did. The beds were left over from the days when a tall man was five-four, so her feet dangled over a hardwood floor on which she had no idea what might crawl at night while she slept. The food was extremely spicy, maybe to keep the many monsters that American movies claimed walked the countryside at bay. Ginny wouldn't want to get close enough to anyone who smelled like that to bite their neck, or any other part of them, for that matter. In short, the romantic ideas that had filled her imaginative mind when she had arrived on this continent were slowly being squashed under the weight of reality.  
  
Castle Dracula had been her last hope. Now, here she stood, surrounded by about twenty other curious people, mostly camera-necklaced Japanese, waiting to see some ghostly apparition appear before them. Their guide droned on in barely discernible English about the war back in the fifteenth century between the Christians and the Muslims that had made the great Prince Vlad, son of Dracula, the Dragon, such a hero. Cameras clicked left and right. What they were finding interesting enough to warrant lasting memories Ginny couldn't imagine. All she could see were piles of rocks and stone walls that looked terribly precarious.  
  
Her yawn ended in a frown. This was not the experience for which she had paid her hard-earned money. With a furtive glance around to see if anyone were watching, she quickly stepped behind a pile of rubble and let the tour group pass by on their way to some particularly fascinating rock. She listened as their voices faded into the distance. Taking a deep breath she realized with no little trepidation that she was alone in Castle Dracula.  
  
Ginny looked around, wishing something - different - would happen. She exhaled a soft chuckle. What did she expect? Was Vlad the Impaler supposed to step from behind the nearest boulder and, with a grand gentlemanly gesture, offer her his hand?  
  
"Well, yeah, that would be nice."  
  
She giggled to herself, realizing she had winced in fear of someone hearing her talking to herself. After all, who would be listening? Looking around at the dark, forbidding stones, she shivered, deciding to move on before her imagination got the better of her and had her running for the bus.  
  
As she perused the remains of the castle spread out around her, she noticed what looked to be an opening in the ground. `Oh, great,' she thought, imagining criss-crossing tunnels riddling the earth beneath her, `the ground may give way at my feet any minute now.'  
  
Still, her curiosity got the better of her and she stepped closer to see where the passage might lead; or, she thought with a frown, what might be in the hole. On closer inspection, it wasn't a hole at all, it was the opening to a stairwell.  
  
Stepping carefully, knowing she had lost her mind to do this at all but too curious to miss this opportunity to explore that which the mere tourist never saw, Ginny began to descend the stairs. Considering the year they were probably carved from the stone, they were in quite good repair. The edges were deteriorating, but not to the point of health department condemnation. She didn't think she was in deadly danger. Yet.  
  
After about 10 stairs, the staircase took a right-angle turn, with more stairs disappearing into the darkness beyond. Ginny knew she should stop, return to her party, go home with her interesting - Who was she kidding? Rather mundane, actually - memories. But each step seemed to call out to her, urging her on to the next. Before she realized it, darkness had begun to close in behind her. When she could no longer see the stair beneath her foot, she decided it was time to retreat to the safety of known reality.  
  
"Don't go."  
  
The whispered words seemed to come from all around her. The hair on the back of Ginny's neck stood straight up, her stomach clenched painfully, and her throat tightened so that she could barely breath. She stopped dead still, hoping her imagination was playing tricks on her. A slight sound - the shifting of weight from foot to foot, perhaps? - came from below. Or was it behind her? The stone walls bounced the sound back and forth, up and down, till she couldn't pinpoint any direction.  
  
Logic said the words came from below, but she wasn't sure logic was a concept into which she wished to put much faith at the moment. As panic gripped her tightly in its talons, Ginny chose retreat, all thought of being careful flying from her brain as visions of movie monsters ascending from the pit of Hell to grab heroines' feet filled her mind.  
  
"Don't run, you'll fall!"  
  
The voice was louder now, the sharp edge of command unmistakable. If she hadn't been in the throes of pure terror Ginny would have found it amusing that the monster seemed concerned for her safety. She was climbing the stairs at a run now, though it was still too dark to see them clearly. Or maybe it had gotten darker. How long had she been down here? Could the sun have set, leaving the world above in darkness?  
  
Leaving her at the mercy of whatever seemed to have mastered the dark of the lower level of Castle Dracula? Was that a footstep on the stairs below her? Fear was stealing the air from her lungs.  
  
Her toe caught the edge of a step, causing her to trip slightly. She put her hand on the wall to steady herself and felt something move beneath her palm. With a little scream, she jumped sideways to get away from whatever menace occupied the wall and felt her foot slide off the edge of the stair, plunging into nothingness. She flung her hands out in front of her, reaching in vain for something to hang onto, to steady her and keep her from falling to her death.  
  
`It's no use', her mind spoke clearly, `you're going to fall and there's nothing you can do about it.' She tried to shift her weight to the other foot, but all that succeeded in doing was twisting her body so that she was falling forward down the stairs. With a scream, she became airborne, plummeting into the darkness below.  
  
Strong hands, their fingers long enough to nearly span her ribcage, closed on her body just beneath her breasts. Temporarily limp with fear, she was pulled tightly against the hardest body she had ever felt. Her head slid in under his chin as he wrapped her in his strong arms. Her cheek was against something very soft - velvet? - and one of her feet was resting on what felt like a hard leather boot.  
  
Ginny threw her arms around the solid chest against which her breasts were intimately pressed and held on for dear life. She wanted to reassure herself that she was alive, that she hadn't fallen to a painful death or been eaten by something unspeakable. The chest beneath her cheek raised, then fell in a deep sigh. It expanded again as her rescuer buried his nose in her hair and breathed in her scent. Not thinking too clearly yet, Ginny turned her face into his chest and inhaled the musky leather scent of him.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
Oh, that voice! It had returned to a whisper, but the deep, masculine timbre was unmistakable. The words rumbled through her saviour's massive chest like thunder on a clear summer evening. Ginny shivered, the trembling creeping down her spine to lodge somewhere south of her belly button. Her mysterious rescuer's arms tightened reassuringly around her in response. She nodded against his chest, afraid her voice would shake and she would make a fool of herself if she spoke.  
  
Keeping one arm around her shoulders, he used the other hand to cup her chin and raise it. She knew that she would be looking into his eyes if she could see him, but all she saw was deeper darkness where his face should have been. How she wished she had a flashlight, a candle, anything to shed some light on this enigmatic man.  
  
"You are lovely."  
  
His breath fanned her cheek. Ginny thought she just might faint.  
  
"You should be more careful, for the world to lose such beauty as you possess would be a shame."  
  
Being a modern woman she would have loved to deny what she was feeling, maybe even to slap him for being so bold. But the truth was all-conscious thought left her as first his soft breath, then his mouth, touched her lips. His lips were strong and soft at the same time. They caressed, demanded, possessed. With his gentle persuasion, her lips opened of their own accord. His tongue slid lightly over her teeth, then entered her mouth to touch its tip to her own.  
  
Ginny shuddered as something amazingly close to an orgasm wracked her body, a rush of moisture warming that place between her legs that seemed to be quickly becoming her obsession. Her mind was flooded with images of lying beneath this man as he plunged into her, taking her to heights she had only imagined.  
  
And yet, her fantasy still had no face to compliment the magnificent body that held her so close.  
  
A sound, a voice calling her name, came from above. He tore his lips from hers with what sounded suspiciously like a hiss. His deep voice vibrated with passion and anger, taking it lower, adding a growling quality that caressed her ears.  
  
"You must go now."  
  
He turned her body in his arms and gently pushed her upward, steadying her as her foot found first one step, then the next. On the third step away from him, Ginny finally found her voice.  
  
"Wait a minute. Aren't you coming?"  
  
She realized then that his hands had left her sides and he was no longer right behind her. His voice faded as he replied, "No, I have work below."  
  
"But..."  
  
"I will see you again," the distance between them made him sound as though he were whispering again, "of that you may be certain. Be careful."  
  
"Wait!"  
  
He was gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

February  
  
Ginny stared off into the distance as the plotter droned on and on, drawing up the latest set of plans for the San Marin County Court House. The darn thing had only been changed about a thousand times! All those years of night school so she could create beautiful houses for the rich and famous and what was she doing? Working for Abraham, Smith & Snyder (the employees loved that acronym) drawing square, ugly buildings that would fit in the County budget.  
  
Sigh.  
  
At least all these revisions gave her lots of time to daydream.  
  
In the six months since she had returned from vacation, Ginny had run the day at Castle Dracula through her mind so many times she felt like a VCR stuck on permanent fast-forward.  
  
Over and over she remembered the feel of her phantom lover's lips on hers. His strong arms, his hard body. In her dreams, he came to her and played her body like a finely- tuned instrument. But she never saw his face.  
  
She wondered again for about the hundredth time how he could have seen her when she couldn't make out hide nor hair of him, only dark on dark. He had called her beautiful but it had been pitch black in that stairwell. Had he just handed her a line to get what he wanted? For some reason, she was certain that was not the case. He had been very sincere. Maybe he was blind, `seeing' with his hands? No, that explanation didn't work either - He hadn't felt her face. Could he have meant beautiful in an emotional sense, like a beautiful personality?  
  
Ginny grimaced, wrinkling her pert little nose.  
  
Get real! He was a man, emotions had to pried out of most of them with a crowbar. Besides, he'd hardly known her long enough to comment on her personality. The only logical conclusion was the same one with which she had been confronted at the time, and every day since: He had actually seen her. But, how?  
  
She shook her head, a look of confusion drawing her dark brows so close together they almost met at the bridge of her straight nose. Long, dark lashes fell over sky-blue eyes as she closed them to clear her mind of images that never failed to frustrate her. Behind her lids, the scene played again.  
  
The suffocating darkness, the strong arms, the all-consuming kiss, and then - the abandonment. The beam of a flashlight had found the stairs as his last words, 'be careful', were still echoing through the stairwell. The tour guide had come up one short when counting his tourist lambs and had gone looking for the stray. Finding the stairs, he had, of course, assumed she had fallen down them, and descended to find the body.  
  
She had informed the guide that there was a man down there doing some sort of work, but he had just smiled at her with that look that said he thought she, along with most English, should be locked up somewhere for her own safety.  
  
As their guide was hustling everyone back to the bus, Ginny had asked him if he were going to look for her rescuer. He had given one sharp shake of his head and Ginny had seen the one thing she had expected all along on this tour - fear. It shone clearly in his dark eyes. No, he was definitely not going any farther down those stairs than he had ventured to find her.  
  
She had protested, wanting desperately to find her would-be lover, but the others on the tour were becoming a little perturbed with all the delay. Ginny had had no choice but to get on the bus, leave Dracula's castle and spend the rest of her tour waiting for the touch on her shoulder that would put a face on the phantom. It never came. She supposed someday she would stop waiting. Someday.  
  
The blare of her telephone rudely shook her from her musings. The LED display on the top of the phone read "Mr Abraham." Ginny's throat tightened. What had she done? What had she gotten caught doing? Her hand reached out and jerked the receiver from its cradle, but took its time getting it to her ear. She cleared her throat and answered in her best professional voice.  
  
"Ginny Parker."  
  
"Ms. Parker?"  
  
Oh, yuck! It was Lois, Mr. Abraham's secretary. She was the type that called everyone `Ms.' because it was her life's work to be politically correct. For the most part, Ginny hated politically correct.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Mr. Abraham would like to see you in his office at 10:45 this morning. Does that suit your calendar?"  
  
"Just a minute, let me check."  
  
Ginny pushed the `hold' button, looked at her desk clock and quietly seethed. 10:30. This was just like Lois. She had probably known about this meeting since 9 o'clock this morning, if not yesterday, but she loved to throw around her power, making it clear that her boss, and, therefore, she, to a certain extent, controlled everybody. What was Ginny supposed to say: `Sorry, I can't see the big boss this morning, I have an appointment to get my dog clipped'? Still, she would let Lois sweat on hold for a minute, thinking she might have miscalculated this time. Examining her not-very- long-but-well-manicured fingernails as she slowly lifted the phone back to her ear, Ginny pushed the button, freeing Lois from Muzak limbo.  
  
"Nothing I can't reschedule, Lois. Please tell Mr. Abraham I'll be there."  
  
She swore she could hear the sigh of relief.  
  
"Very well, Ms. Parker," Ginny ground her teeth and imagined Lois in her underwear, something her mother had told her to do if someone she couldn't tell off ever annoyed her. The picture was so funny, she had to stifle a giggle. "We will see you at 10:45 sharp."  
  
Click.  
  
Ginny nearly ran to the bathroom. Dark red business suit trimmed in black. Check. White blouse, collar demurely buttoned with just the slightest hint of white lace chemise showing. Check. Skirt short enough to let them know you're under 30, long enough to say you're a serious businesswoman. Check. Nylons tight, no runs. Please, God, no runs! Check. Black shoes shiny, no scuffs, two-inch heels. Check. Whip the brush out of her purse, run it through her long auburn hair, making sure it framed her face to perfection, a plump curl resting over one breast, the rest of the mass behind her shoulders falling to the middle of her back. Check. Brush back in purse, make-up bag out. Carefully reapply deep-red lipstick to emphasize the full lips with which God had blessed her. Check.  
  
Arching her brows at her reflection, Ginny decided she looked fine.  
  
Besides, rumor had it that old Mr. Abraham couldn't see beyond his nose without his glasses and was usually too vain to wear them! She dropped off her purse back at her office, picked up her briefcase - all the best- dressed business women wore them - and arrived at Mr. Abraham's office at 10:43.  
  
Lois looked at her wristwatch disapprovingly. Ginny wondered if she were supposed to walk through the door at exactly 10:45.  
  
Probably.  
  
Lois pushed her librarianish glasses up the bridge of her nose and picked up her phone.  
  
"Mr. Abraham, Ms. Parker is here for your appointment."  
  
With an imperious nod, Lois returned the receiver to its cradle, stood and opened one of the double doors that right-angled her desk. She waited as Ginny passed through the door, then pulled it closed behind her. Ginny wondered if that was what the slamming of the coffin sounded like.  
  
"Parker, come in, sit down."  
  
Ginny quickly occupied one of the three overstuffed chairs that sat, uncrowded, in front of Mr. Abraham's huge mahogany desk. This office screamed executive. The entire wall behind the desk was window, the plush carpet a deep chocolate brown. And the bookcases! How would it be to have eight-foot-tall mahogany bookcases in your office?  
  
Before she could peruse the place further, Mr. Abraham cleared his throat and claimed her attention, getting right to business. His authoritative tone came from years of being immediately obeyed. "Mr. Tyler Alan wants Abraham, Smith and Snyder to design, and handle all construction details for, his residence at Park Lane. His budget is open. He wants a single architect to handle the whole operation. He asked for you by name, Parker."  
  
Ginny's heart jumped into her throat, stuck there and stopped beating. Her own project? A house? She had the sudden urge to pinch herself to be certain she wasn't dreaming. Tyler Alan? Did she know him? Had she met him at some office party and forgotten? Had he seen examples of her work and decided she had the style he wanted for his home? Wow, what a responsibility! The whole project. Was she ready? She realized with a start that she wasn't listening to Mr. Abraham.  
  
"...were ready to take on that kind of responsibility but he was quite adamant that you be the architect. The customer's always right, so they say. Unless, of course, you feel that you aren't ready to handle something this big, in which case I can tell Mr. Alan that you weren't comfortable..."  
  
"When do I start?"  
  
Though it might make life at good ol' A.S.S. unbearable in the future, Ginny was not going to pass up an opportunity like this. Even if it meant interrupting Mr. Abraham himself. She knew he felt she hadn't proven herself enough to run a solo project. Well, the only way she was going to prove she could swim with the sharks in the deep water of business was to jump in with both feet. She just hoped she didn't drown.  
  
Standing up for yourself in a predominantly man's world was a touchy proposition. She didn't want to come on too strong and find herself labelled a bitch, but she refused to be the good little girl, doing everything she was told without question, or credit, in short, to be a doormat. Striking a happy medium made you a bitchy doormat. Also not a good position. Being a businesswoman was tricky business.  
  
Mr. Abraham frowned his disapproval at her interruption, but one corner of his mouth twitched slightly as though it wanted to rebel and turn up in a smile. Ginny breathed a sigh of relief. She had done the right thing. Mr. Abraham tossed a manila folder across his desk, something akin to making a field goal. It landed directly in front of her.  
  
"There's the basics - size and layout of the lot. A few of Mr. Alan's ideas; though, I have to admit, he doesn't seem to be too picky. Check on that before you put too much work into this thing, Parker. He might be one of those who gets all his ideas after you've worked your ass off and gotten everything under way. Then he wants to `change a few things'. Usually means redesigning the whole damn thing from the ground up. Talk him up good to begin with and you might be able to head that off at the pass. He wants to meet you for dinner at the address on the inside flap of that folder. 8 o'clock tonight. Any problems?"  
  
Ginny had begun studying the stats, visions of Scarlett O'Hara's Tara dancing in her head. She now realized that she was being dismissed. She stood and shook Mr. Abraham's outstretched hand. The firm handshake told her all she needed to know about his confidence in her handling this project.  
  
She was about to open the door when Mr. Abraham's quiet, for him, "Parker," made her turn back to face his desk. "I don't know why Alan asked for you specifically. I hope it's your talent, you've got plenty of it. If it's not, if he tries anything funny..."  
  
He dropped his eyes to the ground, a man used to knowing exactly what to say at a loss for words. When he raised them again, he looked slightly angry.  
  
"Abraham, Smith and Snyder will not pursue any project at the price of the dignity of one of our employees. And our lawyers will be happy to sue the bastard if he thinks differently!"  
  
With that, he sat and turned to his computer, his embarrassment at the subject matter he had just addressed apparent in the dark red coloring his face and neck.  
  
Ginny quietly said, "Thank you, Mr. Abraham," and left his office. She managed to get through Lois' office and into the hall before her maturity deserted her. As soon as the door closed she pulled her elbows into her sides and said, "Yes!" Stomping her feet, she turned in a little circle, resembling the cartoon character Snoopy.  
  
"Yes, yes, yes!"  
  
She sailed on air to her office where she closed the door, sat down her briefcase, then broke into a rousing chorus of James Brown's `I Feel Good'. After a couple minutes of dancing and singing, she sat behind her desk, put her feet up, leaned back and began imagining what it would be like to have a wall of glass at her back and giant mahogany bookcases at her side. 


	3. Authors Note

Thanks everyone whos reviewed for this story so far!  
  
I have a massive apology for y'all. I planned originally to have this done with no breaks in between but unfortunately I haven't had the chance as I've started my final year at school. This basically means lots of assessments for me. Lucky for you, Monday is my last day of this term, which leaves me with a 6 week break. Leaving me with time to update, Blood and Tears, Deadly Sins.  
  
So basically I'm really sorry, and I'll gat started on the next chapter sometime these coming days.  
  
Also, feel free to check out other hp fics under my other pen name- devils_biatch99  
  
I'll be continuing with these fics as well, forgotten and learn to hate.  
  
Sorry once more, Jess 


	4. Chapter Three

Meeting a client for dinner had proven trickier than meeting the pope at the Vatican. It was a quandary. Should she dress like she was going on a date, or treat the whole thing like a regular day at the office? G\inny had finally decided to go with her instincts and dress up. She wore a black slipdress, black nylons and black heels. A tiny black evening bag, `condom and credit card bag', as one of her more cynical friends called them, completed her ensemble. Simple, understated - and short. Still, she frowned at herself in her vanity mirror.  
  
"You do not look like an architect. You look like a high-priced call girl."  
  
Her frown inverted, becoming a satisfied smile.  
  
"No. I look like a very confident architect who doesn't feel she has to sacrifice her femininity to perform as well as a man."  
  
She picked up the ever-present briefcase and, with a confident nod to her reflection, left her apartment.  
  
She had been going crazy since she got home from work. She had showered, shaved, and done her hair in the time it normally took her to get from the front door to her bathroom. She must have held up at least a dozen outfits in front of her full-length mirror before deciding what to wear. Then she tried on five more before settling on the black dress. She left early because she wasn't certain about finding the address of the restaurant. As she drove through the posh areas of England she began to realize she was in trouble. This was a residential area. Pulling to the side of the road, she got out her map, an absolute necessity for anyone who hadn't lived in Muggle England all their life, and tried to discern where she was and where she wanted to be. She had been so certain that the restaurant would be somewhere ritzy that she hadn't really concentrated on the exact address. Now she realized that she must have driven right past the place.  
  
But she hadn't noticed anything even vaguely resembling a restaurant in that area. She decided to turn around and look again. After backtracking a bit, she pulled up in front of a rather small - for this area anyway - two- story house. The address hung in wrought-iron letters from the eaves of the porch. She thought there must be some mistake, but she figured she'd ring the bell and see if the owners had had this happen before. It was a chance, a slim one, but the only one she had at the moment. She didn't want to have to call Mr Malfoy to verify the address, not after she had decided to lay old problems at rest.  
  
She'd look like a country bumpkin and, besides, he probably wouldn't be home. She definitely didn't want to have to admit to Mr. Abraham in the morning that she hadn't kept her appointment with the client because she couldn't find him.  
  
The house was done in a Scandinavian motif, with little carved shutters on the windows and dark exposed beams supporting the eaves. Very quaint, and not at all English.  
  
Ginny admired the beams as she pushed the button to summon the inhabitants.  
  
The door was opened by a woman Ginny would have cast to play Mrs. Santa Claus in any Christmas movie-of-the-week. She was about 5 feet tall with gray hair pulled into a tight bun that perched on top of her head. She wore a black dress that almost reached her ankles, and a white bib apron over that. Her smile was warm and welcoming, her eyes twinkling, as she wiped her hands on her apron.  
  
"You must be Miss Weasley." Her heavily-accented voice was as warm as her smile. "Please, come in. Excuse the flour, I was just putting the finishing touches on dessert. I have always felt that fresh-baked is best. Mr. Malfoy will be with you shortly."  
  
She spoke as though they had known each other for years. Ginny was still getting over the shock of finding out that Mr. Malfoy had meant for them to meet at his house. She didn't know whether or not she should be apprehensive but Mr. Abraham's warning about not compromising her integrity kept ringing in her ears. Mrs. Claus' voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.  
  
"I don't think he actually expected you to be on time, dear. In the old country, a lady will always be fashionably late, you know." She threw her hands into the air in a gesture of distress that had Ginny ready to dive for cover.  
  
"Oh, where are my manners?" She held out her still-slightly-floured palm. "I am Mrs. Schwartz, Mr. Malfoy's maid, cook and chief bottle washer."  
  
Ginny obeyed the rules of etiquette and shook the maid's hand. She was still a bit nervous. Who was she fooling? She was so nervous she could shake a martini just by holding the glass in her hand. She had to fight the urge to jump and squeak when a bell sounded in the distance.  
  
Mrs. Schwartz' smile turned apologetic. "The bell tolls for me, I'm afraid. While I check on dinner, please make yourself comfortable."  
  
She saw Ginny safely through the door and closed it behind her, then scurried off into what Ginny assumed to be the kitchen. The smells coming from there boded well for dinner. Now if the butterflies in her stomach would cease their F-16 test runs and just fall asleep so she could enjoy it.  
  
Wanting to keep her mind on something, anything!, other than the impending meeting with her first real client, Ginny decided to snoop a little. She placed her briefcase on the floor beside a big overstuffed sofa and walked to a glass display case that sat against one wall. Tiny glass figurines filled the case to overflowing. Ballerinas pirouetted, horses frolicked, flowers bloomed. Each piece was so intricate, so beautiful, with tiny flourishes of silver, gold and precious stones. Ginny had never been much for trinkets, `dust catchers' her father had called them, but these were different. They seemed almost alive.  
  
"Do you like them?"  
  
Ginny jumped and spun around so quickly, she almost lost her balance and toppled into the glass case. With a quick prayer of thanks for her good sense of balance, she wondered what on earth was the matter with her.  
  
Hadn't she expected Mr Malfoy to show up? No, it wasn't just that he had snuck up on her, it was... That voice!, it came to her with sudden alarm, and no lack of tingling in various parts of her body. Could it be? Or had she been wishing so hard to hear it that this strange situation just naturally lent itself to her imagination running wild?  
  
With a blush, she realized he was waiting for her to answer his question. What had he asked? Oh, yeah. Her answer was little more than a whisper. "They're beautiful."  
  
He dipped his chin in a nod of acknowledgment.  
  
"Thank you. Perhaps I'll make one for you someday."  
  
This must be the elusive Mr. Malfoy. Who seemed. familiar? Yet different. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, one long-fingered, perfectly manicured hand resting on the banister. He stood easily six-foot tall, maybe six-two. A navy blue jacket, tailored to accent his broad shoulders and slim waist to perfection covered a maroon turtleneck. She found herself wishing the jacket were not buttoned so she could see more of what she was certain would be a very memorable chest. Matching blue pants molded to his hard thighs, and the shiny toes of highly polished black boots peaked from beneath them. His fashion sense left nothing to be desired.  
  
His straight hair was surprisingly long, reaching several inches below his collar. It was pulled into a fashionable queue at his nape. The most startling thing about him was his very close-cropped beard. He wore it only on his chin, leaving the sides of his face clean-shaven. Though the rest of his hair, was a strange combination of gold and silver, his beard was snow white. It gave him a look of great wisdom. And great mystery.  
  
As she stared, he descended the final two steps and made his way across the room to stand in front of her. He moved so fluidly he seemed almost to glide across the floor rather than walk. Ginny had once seen a martial arts demonstration where the experts had walked like that, big predatory cats seeking their next meal.  
  
Embarrassing as it was, Ginny found herself just staring, at a loss for words. It wasn't that the man was drop-dead gorgeous. He was, but that wasn't why she couldn't find her tongue. It was his eyes. In their nearly silver depths, she felt as though she glimpsed eternity - past, present and future. It was fascinating and, at the same time, rather saddening. This man had seen more than any man should ever have to see.  
  
He blinked slowly, jarring Ginny out of her stupor and bringing a furious blush to her cheeks as she dropped her eyes to find that he had extended his hand to her.  
  
"I'm Draco Malfoy"  
  
Recovering her smarting aplomb, she quickly reached out to practice her firm, business handshake.  
  
"Ginny Weasley."  
  
His warm fingers closed around hers and slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he raised her hand to his lips. The brush of his lips across the back of her hand was as light as the whisper of a butterfly's wings. Shivers shot down her spine and she hoped she didn't look as blown-away as she felt. He straightened, releasing her hand, and smiled. His teeth were frosty-white perfect.  
  
"May I offer you a drink?"  
  
Ginny started to nod but she knew actual words, not just her name, were in order at this point. Time to take the plunge and see if her voice would completely desert her in the face of such inexplicable inner turmoil.  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
Not bad, at least she'd managed the proper pitch and volume.  
  
He waved a hand toward the sofa as he strode to the wet bar that stood in one corner of the room. "Please sit down, Miss Weasley. We have a lot to discuss."  
  
And she thought Mr. Abraham had an authoritative manner. Even though Mr. Malfoy had worded it as a request, there was no doubt in her mind that she had been ordered to take a seat. For one rebellious minute she considered saying she'd rather stand. How dare this man treat her like a servant! Then she remembered that this was not a date, it was a business meeting, one she really wanted, needed, to go well. Annoying the client right out of the shoot didn't seem like the best move. And, after all, she was kind-of his servant, at least she was going to perform a service, one service!, for him. She returned his smile, though with a lack of sincerity, and rather ungraciously planted herself on the sofa.  
  
He spoke as he poured Dom Perignon into two champagne flutes, the tilt of his head and raised eyebrow suggesting humor. "Are the accommodations not to your liking? If you would prefer, we may adjourn to my office."  
  
The familiarity of his voice was causing the butterflies already in residence in her stomach to mutate into pterodactyls. She was so nervous they had to stand in line just to get in. Could Malfoy be her mysterious rescuer? The best way to find out would be to come right out and ask him, but if she were wrong, she would be embarrassed to the core, besides looking like a lovestruck teenager. And what if he were the one? Wouldn't he have said something by now? He could have been bluffing. Maybe he couldn't see a thing in the dark of that stairwell. But wouldn't he recognize her voice? `Hah, look at him,' she thought, `He probably rescues damsels in distress for a hobby. Doubtful he remembers their names, let alone their voices.' She realized that he was once again waiting for an answer. Now if she could just remember the question. What the heck was this man doing to her?! She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and imagined herself seated at a conference table. That helped. A little.  
  
"The accommodations are fine, Mr. Malfoy."  
  
That sounded good, polite, not too aggressive. Deep breath. She was doing fine. He seemed to appear before her, offering one of the flutes. She needed to keep a close eye on this guy. He moved so quietly he could be on top of you before you had time to think. The fantasy she had envisioned in the stairwell of lying beneath her rescuer, their bodies joined, suddenly flashed in her mind. Only this time the phantom had a face - Mr Malfoy's face. She jumped and whispered, "Stop that!"  
  
Her host raised an eyebrow in question, one corner of his beautiful mouth following suit. Ginny could feel a blush start in the center of her chest and work its way to the far ends of her body. She accepted the wine, took a sip, a big sip, then tentatively smiled up at him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy. This is the first one-on-one meeting I've had with a client and I'm afraid I'm not handling it very well. I expected a restaurant, not that your house isn't beautiful, it just hadn't occurred to me that a client might want to meet at his house. I feel terribly overdressed, or maybe underdressed, and..."  
  
He sat on the other end of the sofa, not crowding her, but still too close for her liking since just being in the same room as this man made it far too easy for her to forget her train of thought and find herself on the 5:02 to Intimate Fantasyland. When he turned to face her, his knee brushed hers. Her imagination was beginning to make her long for a lobotomy because that tiny contact sent something resembling a jolt of electricity zinging through her. He waved his palm in front of her.  
  
"I feel that your discomfort is my fault. I should have made the details of this meeting more clear to Mr. Abraham. Please, let me explain." He sipped his wine, his lips leaving a fleeting impression on the crystal, then set the flute on the coffee table. Ginny took another sip and put her glass next to his, grateful to rescue the beautiful crystal from the deathgrip of her sweaty palm. "I travel a great deal. I have had several bad experiences in restaurants - bottled water can be difficult to acquire, pleasantly spiced food is a rarity, even ice can become a hidden assassin." He shrugged. "Therefore, I avoid restaurants whenever possible. Mrs. Schwartz is an excellent cook and I can eat without fear of retribution from the food. Unfortunately, it did not occur to me that you might feel less than comfortable meeting a client, especially a male client, in such an intimate setting. I assure you, business is the only thing on my mind...at the moment."  
  
Though said in a very businesslike tone, Ginny could have sworn there was more to that `at the moment' than met the ear, but she chalked it up to her imagination, which seemed to have gone into overdrive the moment he had walked into the room.  
  
His explanation for his choice of meeting locations was perfectly logical. After her trip to Europe, where she had learned the true meaning of gastronomic distress, she could sympathize with his plight. Her smile genuine this time, she held out her hand to him.  
  
"Do you think we could just start again? I'm Ginny Weasley."  
  
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Weasley."  
  
He started to kiss the back of her hand; then, with a sardonic grin, changed his mind and gave it one brisk, businesslike shake. "I am Draco Malfoy. I would prefer it if you would call me Draco."  
  
Ginny reacted internally to the break in contact as her fingers slipped from his grasp with something akin to disappointment. Had she wanted him to kiss her hand again?  
  
"Please, call me Ginny."  
  
"Ginny."  
  
His eyes caught and held hers like a spider's web capturing a butterfly. She had the feeling of drowning; no, of being engulfed in some wonderful, warm liquid that filled her so full of life that she felt like exploding. She knew with absolute clarity that she could not break the spell. She would bask in his wonderful chocolate gaze until he looked away, or Hell froze over, whichever came first.  
  
He leaned closer to her, his warm palm sliding over her shoulder to grasp the back of her neck. His hot, champagne-scented breath brushed her cheek. She luxuriated in warm chocolate caressing every part of her body. She was lost.  
  
How easy it would be to take her now. She is beautiful, her smile casting warmth into a cold heart. Listen! Her pulse speeds with her excitement. She craves the darkness. She wants you inside of her, piercing her, devouring her. So easy. No! Not this woman!  
  
Draco stood, breaking the spell, and Ginny felt as if someone had thrown ice water in her face. She started to lean back against the sofa then thought better of it and reached for her champagne. A deep swallow of the cool liquid made her feel a little better. She felt as though she had just been rescued again, but she wasn't sure from what or by whom.  
  
Draco placed her briefcase on the coffee table that fronted the sofa, retrieved his wine from the table and sat in the chair next to the sofa. "I assume you will need that for our meeting. I would prefer to conclude our business before dinner, if you don't mind. I find I enjoy my meal more if there is no unfinished business to disturb digestion."  
  
Ginny murmured, "Thank you," and forced her mind back into business mode. She opened the briefcase and took out a legal pad and pen. The fuzzy warmth that had seemed to engulf her just seconds before lingered at the edge of her mind, not enough to be distracting, but enough to let her know that she wanted that feeling again. Whatever it was that had held her for those few moments, she was certain it would be extremely addictive.  
  
Giving her head a little shake, Ginny told herself she was being foolish. It had been an almost-kiss, something Mr Malfoy had thought better of before completing it. She had had those before. But, somehow, this one had been different. `He's a client,' she chastised herself, `you shouldn't be thinking about kissing him anyway. Thank goodness he had the good sense to keep things on a business level. Now try following his example, why don't you?'  
  
"Can you give me an idea of your specific desires for this project, Mr. Malfoy? Do you want a split-level, traditional, pillared? How many bedrooms?"  
  
He seemed a little distracted. Then he looked directly at her, his gaze fierce, but not like before. This was less personal, more...angry? She wasn't sure.  
  
"I leave it completely in your hands, Ginny. Build me a home, one that comes from your heart just for me." His voice softened, his eyes turning sad for a second. "I have been too long without a home." The fire returned. "I chose you because I knew it would be within you. You can give me a home!"  
  
Ginny was slightly taken aback by the vehemence of his proclamation. Her voice was pitched higher than she would have liked. "You don't have any specifications? A budget?"  
  
His white-bearded chin slashed the air like a silvery dagger as he shook his head once. "Money is no object," his tone was bitter, "I have plenty of Galleons. My only specification is that you must design it and personally oversee that your design is followed to the letter. Do I have your word?"  
  
The air between them seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his question. Ginny took a deep breath. She had the feeling that she was making this decision about more than a job.  
  
"Yes, Draco, I will design the house myself and supervise everything."  
  
He nodded and stood, offering his hand. "Then our business is at an end. Shall we dine?"  
  
Ginny quickly replaced the legal pad in her briefcase, then placed her hand in his. She expected his palm to be warm and she wasn't disappointed. What she hadn't expected, although by now she should have, was the instant electricity that came from his touch. He lifted gently, pulling her to her feet. The wine must have been stronger than she thought because suddenly her high heels seemed to be three feet tall. She stumbled slightly while trying to adjust to the height. Draco quickly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his solid body to steady her. Her arms seemed to slip around his waist of their own accord. For the breath of a second, she felt his arms tighten around her in a near rib-crushing embrace, then he raised his hands to her shoulders and gently pushed her back so he could look down into her eyes, his breath fanning her cheek as he spoke.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
Ginny blushed to her toes. The flush came from the fact that she wasn't completely certain she had stumbled solely from the wine. Could she have subconsciously wanted him to take her into his arms so much that she had arranged it? That was so deceptive! But it had worked!  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
She was breathless, her lips actually tingling in anticipation of his kiss. She dropped her head back slightly, to see him better she told herself, but she knew it was really an invitation. One he decided not to R.S.V.P. His nostrils flared and he pushed her firmly to arms' length.  
  
"Perhaps you need sustenance to counter the effects of the wine."  
  
He stepped away from her and around the end of the sofa. With a sweep of his hand he motioned for her to pass in front of him. Hiding her disappointment, she complied. He placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her into the dining room.  
  
Where the living room had been furnished in `quaint and homey', this room was all sparse luxury. A mahogany table, no bigger than six feet in diameter, stood in the middle of the room. The chairs - there were only two - had deep red cushions on the seats and backs, the one on the back embroidered in black with a coat of arms: a rose in full bloom above turbulent waves.  
  
A fireplace in one wall cast its soft glow into the room. A crystal chandelier holding at least thirty candles hung above the table, softly lighting the table. Four-candle candelabra stood in each corner of the room to chase away any shadows that might escape the chandelier and fireplace.  
  
The table was set with china so fine you could see the candlelight through it. The silverware shone with the dull glow of real silver. Fine crystal, identical to the flutes, completed the picture. Draco guided her to a chair, which he pulled from beneath the table, waited for her to be seated, then effortlessly slid it, and her, back up to the table. He took the seat to the left of hers, a chair that was half again as large as the one in which she sat. It resembled a throne, and he took his place there as if he had been born to it.  
  
Ginny gave a nervous giggle.  
  
"If you looked up `intimate dinner for two' in Webster's I think you'd find this room. It's beautiful." Draco smiled, his eyes alight. "I'm glad you like it. I admit I have a weakness for the finer things in life."  
  
"Is it all authentic?"  
  
One corner of his mouth rose in a sneer of contempt. "At the risk of sounding like a snob, I hate replicas." His mouth relaxed into a sensuous smile. "I am comfortable with antiques, perhaps because I am one."  
  
His deep chuckle vibrated the air, sending a shiver though Ginny. The fire at his back bathed him in a reddish glow, almost as if he were a living, breathing candle. She knew she was a moth being drawn to that flame. Should she fight to keep from being consumed by his fire? What would it feel like to bask in that warmth, to let him burn within her body as he was currently burning her mind? A half memory flitted across her consciousness, chocolate heat all around her, inside her. She shivered.  
  
"Are you cold, Ginny?"  
  
"Not at all."  
  
Her desire-glazed eyes and the airy, sex siren voice in which she spoke were almost his undoing. His smile faded, his eyes narrowing as he caught the scent of her passion.  
  
She is waiting, hot and ready for the seduction only you can give. Take her now!  
  
He started to rise from the table just as Mrs. Schwartz entered with a large tray in her hands. Shaking his head to clear away the last remnants of the rabid lust that had almost overwhelmed him, he chastised himself. This dinner had not been one of his better ideas. The temptation was too great, his body far too desirous of the lovely lady before him. He gave an imperceptible nod to Mrs. Schwartz as she placed filled salad plates on top of the dinner plates before each of them. She placed a small turntable with several different salad dressings on the table between them, then turned to him.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy, there was a call for you from a Mr. Dylan. Since you left instructions not to be disturbed, I insisted that he leave a message. He said it was most urgent that he reach you before 10 this evening."  
  
Draco nodded with a slow blink of dismissal. He glanced at the gold Rolex on his wrist and frowned. "I hope you will forgive me, Miss Parker, but I must make this call. Please enjoy your dinner. This may take a while and I wouldn't want to keep you waiting."  
  
Stepping around his chair, he came closer to her side. Ginny had to turn in her chair to look up at him, a move that made her dress ride high enough on her thigh to make him take a deep breath. He pulled a business card from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of her.  
  
"This is a number at which I can be reached anytime. Please do not hesitate to call should you...need...anything." Pushing his control to its limit, he took her hand from where it rested on the arm of her chair and brought it to his lips. The heat of life coursed through the veins of her tiny hand. She smelled clean, a perfume wafting from her skin that took him a minute to place. When his sensitive nose made the identification - baby lotion - his loins tightened to the bursting point. Gritting his teeth, he returned her hand to the chair and straightened.  
  
"Once again, forgive me for cutting short our dinner."  
  
Ginny smiled up at him. "Of course. But I really wouldn't mind waiting."  
  
He shook is head.  
  
"It might be hours. I'll dine after." A secret, slightly evil grin curved his lips. "Good evening, Ginny." He dipped his head, more of a bow, really, turned and quickly exited the dining room.  
  
Though it was complete nonsense and Ginny knew it, she would have sworn the room grew colder the minute he was gone. 


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Three  
  
Mr. Malfoy did not rejoin her that night. Ginny was a little disappointed, and, she had to admit, a little relieved. Though conversation with him was stimulating, too much so at times, it was also difficult because she seemed to have a problem separating business and pleasure. She hoped that was something that would come with experience, but, remembering the roller coaster on which her emotions seemed to ride whenever Mr. Malfoy was near, she doubted it.  
  
After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours - according to the alarm clock on the bedside table it was actually about 15 minutes – Ginny gave up the chase for the elusive prey called sleep' and called Colin. She knew her best friend would want to speak to her and give her guidance no matter what time of night it was needed. After all, that's what friends were for.  
  
Rustling sounds. Colin sounded as if she had swallowed a large frog.  
  
"If this is an obscene phone call, forget it, I'm too tired to enjoy it and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you be a typical man and get your jollies without a bit of concern for your partner."  
  
More rustling sounds warned of the phone being sent back to its cradle.  
  
Ginny yelled into the phone, "Colin, it's me!"  
  
"Me? This can't be me because me knows that I get up at six o'clock in the morning and would not appreciate a call at," rustle, rustle, "one in the morning! Are you crazy?!"  
  
Ginny pulled the phone away from her ear to protect her eardrum as Colin shouted her discovery and annoyance. She warily brought it back when the other end grew silent.  
  
"Colin?"  
  
"Are you okay? Is this one of those middle-of-the-night something-awful- happened calls?"  
  
She sounded reasonable now.  
  
"Not exactly. I couldn't sleep. I had this really strange business meeting and..."  
  
"Business meeting? Come on, Mare, you wouldn't take your life in your hands by waking me up for a business meeting."  
  
More staticy rustling.  
  
"Okay, I'm sitting up, I've reached a semblance of awake. Give."  
  
Ginny smiled. Colin was a great friend who had always come through for her. She liked to bluff and bluster, but that was just her way of letting you know that she cared enough about you to put herself out. Ginny felt like a sixteen-year-old after her first date telling her friend all the details. She mentally chastised herself. You're twenty-two, at least get the age right!'  
  
"You'll never believe what happened today!"  
  
She proceeded to describe to Colin in minute detail her meetings with Mr. Abraham and Draco. Colin threw in you've got to be kidding' and you creep' at the appropriate times. When Ginny signified that she was finished by taking a deep breath, Colin jumped in.  
  
"He's gay, you know."  
  
Ginny exhaled indignantly. "No way!"  
  
"Yes, way. Think about it. He's gorgeous, rich, has no wife appendage, and doesn't seem to be in mourning. I rest my case. He has to like guys. Or he's a psycho, also not a good choice to take home to meet the family."  
  
Ginny screwed up her nose as though she smelled something bad. Colin had a point. As her mother had always said, If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.' But she just couldn't imagine Mr. Malfoy with another man. Oh, bossing them around, sure. Sitting on a throne and having them bow before him and kiss his ring, no problem. But actually holding one in his arms and... No way!  
  
"You're wrong, Colin. I don't know how I know but I just know. Mr. Malfoy is definitely not gay."  
  
"Girlfriend, you're thinking with your gonads. Okay, if he didn't have a date with another guy tonight, then how come he didn't stay and eat with you?"  
  
"He had to make a phone call."  
  
"Yeah, right. Phone calls do not pull studs from their appointed rounds. I was with you when you bought that little black number. If the guy wasn't twitchin' and droolin' after half an hour, he's not into girls. He just..."  
  
Ginny had a sudden vivid memory of the heat of his touch, the fire in his eyes. She interrupted Colin with full conviction.  
  
"He's not gay. I don't know why he didn't eat with me. Maybe, like he said, the call was really important."  
  
Colin made a disgusted sound.  
  
"Yeah, and maybe he's a vampire so he couldn't let you see that he wasn't really going to eat anything. You better get a handle on yourself, friend. You've got I'm falling for this guy' all over your voice."  
  
Ginny giggled self-consciously.  
  
"Oh, I do not. I'm going to sleep. Some of us have to work in the morning, y'know."  
  
"You bitch!"  
  
They both laughed and said goodnight.  
  
After hanging up the phone, Ginny ran Colin's accusation through her mind. Mr. Malfoy gay? She shook her head vigorously. No way! He wasn't gay and he wasn't a vampire. Mr. Malfoy was a normal businessman who wanted a nice house to come home to after a long, hard day at the office.  
  
He wanted her to build it because he wanted a woman's touch. That might be a slightly archaic way of thinking, but who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth? She would do her very best, design a house for him worthy of a spread in Architect's Digest' and be on her way to a great career building beautiful houses. Her client's sexual proclivities would have no effect on that, and were none of her business, anyway! With visions of exposed beams floating in her head, Ginny drifted off to sleep.  
  
To dream.  
  
She was back in the stairwell at Castle Dracula only this time she had made her way safely to the bottom of the stairs. She entered a large cavern illuminated by hundreds of candles, there soft glow warming her as she watched them flicker and flare. In the middle of the room a dais held a huge four-poster bed, covered in a blood-red fur throw. The candlelight seemed to dance over the fur, bringing forth highlights and casting shadows, until it seemed almost alive. And standing in front of the dais was Draco. He wore skintight black leather pants and a seductive smile. He raised his arm and unrolled his fingers, one by one, till his palm was exposed to her, beckoning her to him.  
  
"Come to me, Ginny."  
  
His voice was a breath of wind and a kingly command all rolled into one. Ginny had never wanted anything as much as she wanted to obey him.  
  
Still, she hesitated. She wasn't certain exactly why, just that some tiny warning bell in her brain was trying to get her attention. But he was so magnificent! He flexed the fingers of his extended hand and she made note of his slightly long, well-manicured fingernails. The thought crossed her mind that he could curl his hands into some pretty wicked claws if he so desired.  
  
With her attention already on his hand, she followed it as it descended to the buttons at the waistband of his pants. He slowly unfastened the top button. Ginny raised her eyes to meet his intense gaze and saw the promise of Heaven, and the fires of Hell, shining in his silver eyes.  
  
She felt indecision tearing at her - Go to him or turn and run?  
  
He spoke again, velvet over steel, and she was lost.  
  
"I am all that you seek, my love, and more. Trust me."  
  
As soon as Ginny stepped into the room, a door slammed shut behind her.  
  
Startled, she turned toward the noise. There was nothing but blackness behind her. No door, no stairs, no escape. Fear barely had time to register in her heart before she felt fur against her bare back and the welcome weight of a man settling over her. Her body responded immediately, her back arching to meet the hard male presence. Mr. Malfoy - at this point, she guessed she should call him 'Draco' - smiled down at her as he slowly eased his way into her body. She raised her eyes to meet his and found ebony oblivion, the pleasure coursing through her veins like a bullet-train.  
  
This was all happening so fast! She screamed and pushed against him, fear of losing herself, and of not caring if she did, spurring her on.  
  
He wrapped her struggling body tightly in his strong arms and laid his cheek against hers. His lips touched her ear, his breath feathering the tiny hairs inside as he whispered, "Don't fight me, Ginny."  
  
Ginny held still so she might better hear him.  
  
"Look at me and see you heart's desire."  
  
Their bodies were still intimately joined and she throbbed for release, though she fought it. He raised his head, putting his face inches above hers. He parted his moist lips as though in preparation for a deep lover's kiss. Then his teeth parted slightly and Ginny saw what she had known all along would be there. Sharp eyeteeth glistened longer than normal, long enough to pierce flesh and drain blood.  
  
Her eyes flew back to meet the fire of his gaze. Her body tightened around him in a muscular spasm that sent another flash of pleasure through her.  
  
Could she really convince herself that she wanted to get away from him?  
  
"Give your throat to me, my love, and I will lay the world at your feet. Your pleasure will be more than your mind can comprehend."  
  
He was so intense, his eyes boring into hers as his hips performed an age- old dance of seduction against her tender flesh. "You chose to stay with me, now choose to be mine forever. I will love you, cherish you, for all eternity. I swear it!"  
  
The tiny bell in her brain had become an air-raid siren but it didn't have a chance of getting through the haze of passion that had filled her entire being. Her dreams, warped as they might be, were coming true, and she wasn't about to blow this chance. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the side, exposing her throat to him. He inhaled sharply, his voice a growl in her ear.  
  
"You are mine!"  
  
A sharp prick of pain as his teeth pierced her neck was followed by such an exquisite orgasm that she cried out his name. Heat spread outward from the place where his lips touched her neck like the ripples in a rock-disturbed pond. He was stroking her breast with one warm palm, the other holding her to him. He thrust deeply and she felt her body building to a new peak. She wondered if another climax like the last would overtax her heart and kill her. She sighed, not caring if this night were her last as long as it went of forever. He had promised pleasure beyond her comprehension. She had no doubt that he could, and would, deliver.  
  
Suddenly he pulled his lips from her throat, turned his face and hissed.  
  
"...a few low clouds. Temperatures should be in the high 70's..."  
  
Ginny jumped as her radio alarm did its duty and brought her to consciousness. She quickly touched the button that would reset it for tomorrow. As she stretched, her hand automatically went to her throat.  
  
She felt for any tenderness, then laughed at herself when disappointment met her touch. Had she really expected to find teethmarks? But that dream had seemed so real. She shook her head and reaffirmed her convictions about keeping this job on a professional level.  
  
Tossing the dream into the realm of a nice memory, she went about her morning routine. Put on the tea, do some yoga, shower, get dressed. As she looked in the mirror to check her hair, the vision of her vampire dream lover hissing caused her to turn quickly to the bed. She knew it was foolishness, but she had the strong desire to send her hand across her chest in the sign of the cross, something she hadn't done in years. In the dream Draco had hissed his displeasure, it had been directly at her alarm clock. 


	6. Chapter five

Chapter Four  
  
The night was dark and warm, just the way he liked it. The boulevard teemed with life. A woman of the night boldly walked up to him and opened her shirt to show off her wares. He smiled appreciatively, wondering if he could entice her into a nearby alley. As he leaned closed, he caught the taint of bad blood in her sweat. The way his prey treated each other had long ago destroyed any pity he might have had for them.  
  
This woman, with open sores dotting the skin of the arms she tried to hide beneath a cheap cotton blouse, certainly knew that to lie with a man would mean passing on her particular plague, condemning him to a long, slow, painful death. Yet her only concern was the money that would bring her a needle full of temporary amnesia. And they would call him a monster! A snarl of distaste curling his lip, he waved a dismissive hand in her direction and quickly moved on. There was plenty of game, he need not settle for something he deemed beneath him.  
  
Sunset Boulevard.  
  
The irony in the name was not lost on him. As the sun lost its grip of purity on the world, darkness grabbed it in a stranglehold.  
  
Sunset heralded the beginning of his freedom, loosing him on the unsuspecting world until the sun returned. The dark made the prey afraid. It made them weak and stupid. And it made them want what he had to offer - a dramatic, ecstasy-filled escape from the pain of their mundane lives. And taking their worthless lives, devouring them in a frenzy of blood-lust, gave him a short reprieve from his most powerful adversary - boredom.  
  
Occasionally, when he allowed himself such useless folly, he longed for the days of his youth. Days when a strong man on a warhorse could rule the known world. When women fell to their knees before him, begging for their lives - before becoming of the blood, he had never killed a woman.  
  
Days when men bowed before him and swore their undying fealty. He chuckled - a wry, mirthless sound - the good old days.  
  
Tonight, he was dressed for the kill. His blonde locks were slicked back with sandalwood oil, turning them sleek black, then pulled into a tight queue, held at his nape with a piece of black leather. He wore a silken black poet's shirt of the finest linen which revealed a good bit of his smooth chest, tight black slacks and black boots polished to mirror- brilliance. His long black canvas duster, an adequate modern substitute for the cape of old, brushed his ankles. A large, dark predator among a herd of defenseless sheep.  
  
Searching his chosen hunting ground, his sharp eyes spotted a young black girl, maybe eight or nine, bouncing a ball against the wall of a grey brick building while the man he assumed to be her father called to passersby, encouraging them to enter the theater behind him and experience its pleasures. He felt the excitement of the active hunt begin, his heart picking up its beat, his lungs filling in anticipation of a need for extra oxygen. Could he take the girl without her barker father even taking notice? And if he were discovered by the child's dubious guardian, could he control him with the power of his eyes while draining the life's blood from the girl? At last, a challenge worthy of him.  
  
He moved slowly toward the girl, feeling every muscle work as it propelled him ever closer to his prey. He kept her in his sight while training his other senses toward her father. He quietly slid into the space between two buildings that the girl was using as her personal ball court.  
  
His pulse pounded in his brain as he grew rock-hard with anticipation. He slid the tip of his tongue over his teeth, enjoying the feel of the long, sharp upper canines. He was close enough to smell her now - a light sheen of sweat covered her young body from the exertion of her game - and he inhaled deeply through clenched teeth.  
  
Her senses more attuned to the dangers of the streets than her youth should have necessitated, she must have heard his deep breath, or perhaps felt his hungry stare, because she turned and looked up at him, her eyes wide with apprehension and suspicion. His dark eyes easily caught and held her eyes. He smiled in triumph as he took her hand in his and slipped deeper into the shadows between the buildings. Her ball lay forgotten on the ground.  
  
At the back of the rundown building, a dumpster stood against the wall. He stepped around and to the back of it, pulling the unresisting girl with him. His senses told him that her father knew nothing of her disappearance. As was most often the case with the people of the Boulevard, he was oblivious to all, even the fate of his own daughter, while in the pursuit of the almighty dollar. He wondered if, with enough gold, he could have just purchased the girl from her dear old dad. Possibly, but that would not have been a challenge, and the meal would not have been so sweet.  
  
His predatory smile slipped to a snarl as he remembered times in the past when he had done just that, drunk the blood of purchased prey – an inconvenient child, or wife! - whose protector cared more for profit than the fate of those their honor should have dictated they protect. How worthless people had become within his lifetime, suitable only as meat upon which superior predators such as himself could gorge themselves!  
  
He lifted the girl to his eye level, reveling in the sound of the warm blood coursing through her veins. Shifting his eyes to her throat, he broke the spell just long enough for her to begin a pitiful struggle, hoping the one whose job it had been to protect her would hear and come to investigate.  
  
She managed one squeak before his teeth pierced her throat and she was gripped in the throes of pleasure his bite gave to all victims, young or old.  
  
Her body spasmed as her heart pumped scarlet eternity into his veins. He sealed his lips tightly around the punctures so not one drop might get away.  
  
He shivered with the effort to control his sexual response to feeding, his erection becoming painful. Though he preferred to have his dinner with a side of sex, he was not a pederast. He had taken the girl purely for the challenge. He knew he would have no difficulty finding female entertainment later, so, for now, he would enjoy the near-pain of anticipation.  
  
Sighing as the girl's heart ceased beating, he licked the last drops from her throat and tossed her body into the dumpster.  
  
"Hey, man, what you doin' wit' ma kid?!"  
  
He silently cursed himself for letting down his guard for even a moment, a foolish, potentially lethal mistake! Though he doubted anyone in this neighborhood would have the intelligence, or wherewithal, to become a serious threat to him, there was still no excuse for such laxity on his part.  
  
Self-chastisement at an end, he slowly turned away from the dumpster to address the current threat. A very angry black man, the girl's father, was barreling down the alley, waving a small handgun menacingly as he ran.  
  
Inhaling the man's scent of anger and fear brought the beast within him to full glory. His voice was a deep growl of warning.  
  
"The girl's miserable life is at an end. Do you wish to join her?"  
  
He attempted to catch the father's angry glare but found to his disgust that it was too dark in this alley to make the connection. Though he could see well in this light, the man could not see his eyes; therefore, the spell would not take. He stepped forward in an effort to reach better light and the gun roared the father's fury.  
  
White hot pain shuddered through his body, centered just below his breast bone. He looked down and saw the wet blossom of blood on his shirt. When he once again raised his regal head, his eyes glowed with a light of their own. He reached out and grabbed the hand that held the gun before the man could fire again. With one sharp, seemingly effortless, pull, he tore the arm from its socket and tossed it, gun still tightly clutched in dead fingers, to the ground. As the man tried to cover the gaping wound with his other hand, it, too, was torn from its socket with unnatural ease to be thrown into the dumpster where it landed atop his daughter's body. Pink saliva dripped from the long canines of the predator as he grabbed the man's crotch. His victim's screams drowned out the sound of tearing cloth as he twisted and pulled, then dropped the mangled heap of flesh and cloth at his feet.  
  
Reaching into the pocket of his silk pants, he withdrew several hundred dollar bills which he stuffed in the black man's shirt pocket. The prey had gone into deep shock by this point, no longer screaming, just watching him with wide, dead eyes. He leaned close to the victim of his most vicious attack in years and whispered near his ear.  
  
"She was delicious, well worth the money."  
  
He tipped his head, listening. His slow smile was evil incarnate.  
  
"If those sirens bring help quickly enough, you may live to be an old man."  
  
His tone dropped lower, barely human. "I wish them God's speed!"  
  
A squad car came to a screeching halt at the mouth of the alley, its headlights cutting the darkness where he stood. Narrowing his eyes against the sudden increase of light and hissing his displeasure, he slipped quickly behind the dumpster. Examining his surroundings, he quickly came to the conclusion that the only way out of this cul-de-sac was straight up. His chest was throbbing, blood continuing to seep from the gunshot wound, his strength leaving with it. His powers of concentration would be affected by the pain and loss of blood, so he would have to use a method other than his first choice. Focusing his whole being on the edge of the rooftop to which he wished to jump, he bunched the muscles in his legs and sprang into the air. Landing badly, he slipped and fell back, barely managing to grab the edge of the roof. With a great effort, the ripping in his chest nearly his undoing, he pulled himself up onto the roof, then rolled onto his back and lay there panting. He had the urge to moan with the pain in his chest but, due to pride and the proximity of the police, he controlled it.  
  
As he gained his feet and began the search for an exit, he couldn't resist a chuckle at the realization that the pain from his erection had ceased. That was one inconvenience he was rid of for the evening.  
  
A scream of agony sounded from the alley below. He whipped around, his long hair flying, his lips curling in the smug smile of a sated predator.  
  
Lieutenant Michael Decker had seen a lot of bizarre, and brutal, human behavior in his twenty years on the Los Angeles police force. A lot of it had happened on this very boulevard. But nothing in his past, not the last ten years in Homicide, not even a couple tours in 'Nam, had prepared him for this. This one entered the realm of what he liked to call the animals among us'.  
  
Finding the body of a little girl in a dumpster was, unfortunately, not that unusual an occurrence around here. Drunks, whores and junkies didn't take very good care of their children. Most the kids in this neighborhood were accidents their mothers had turned into welfare cash cows. He made a mental note to notify the Department of Family Services about this girl's death. She had surely been used enough in life, he'd be damned if he were going to let her keep feeding her parent's bad habits for even one more month in death.  
  
The condition of the body was just one of the very strange facets of this crime scene. He didn't need an autopsy to tell him that the little girl, black - Uh-uh, Decker, African-American' - approximately five-years-old, was a few pints low. She looked like a deflated balloon, her skin lying flat against, almost sticking to, her bones. The poor little thing hadn't had much weight to begin with. He figured now she'd probably weigh in at about a pound-and-a-half, maybe two.  
  
The only wound on the body immediately visible to the naked eye was a set of puncture marks on her throat. Decker snarled, a sound of disgust coming from the back of his throat. Some nut with a vampire fixation had probably decided that tonight was the night for his coming out and this kid had been his lucky first customer. The only problem with that scenario was where was the blood? There wasn't a drop on the ground or in the dumpster from what he could see. No human could drink that much of the stuff without puking his guts out and there was no sign of that in the near vicinity. Had the creep siphoned it into some kind of container to enjoy in the privacy of his own home? How? Forensics had better give him a lot more to go on than he could see or he was in a heap of trouble on this one.  
  
Of course, there was always the possibility that the witness, the kid's huckster father, would live. A grim smile flashed across his lips, then was gone. From the description of the guy's injuries he had received from the senior patrolman on the scene, that possibility was practically nil. It looked to Decker like the guy had lost enough blood on the scene to punch his ticket. Shrugging, he reminded himself that anything was possible.  
  
The junior patrolman, a young man no more than twenty, walked up to him. Decker felt sorry for the kid. He was slightly green, the tell-tale signs of puking written all over his face. Decker smiled and examined the scene more closely, giving the kid a chance to recover his dignity.  
  
"Lieutenant Decker?"  
  
Decker looked back at the young patrolman, then took his proffered hand with a solid shake.  
  
"I'm Decker."  
  
Decker had a deep, gravelly voice that soothed some, and irritated others.  
  
Luckily, this kid was one of the former. The Lieutenant reminded him of his father and that made him want to do his duty to the best of his ability. He straightened his shoulders and rested his hand on his holster, presenting, at least in his mind, a picture of strength and preparedness. "I'm Bobbie Wilson, sir. I was the first on the scene. Since you're in charge of the Homicide investigation, I thought you might want my report directly."  
  
Decker shouldered a smile, not wanting the young man to think he was laughing at him. The enthusiasm of youth never failed to give him a little tee-hee. Withdrawing his notepad from the pocket of his suitcoat, he flipped to a new page, and raised expectant eyes to the patrolman.  
  
"At 10:45 I received..."  
  
Decker held up a hand. "It's late. Cut to the chase, son."  
  
Bobbie blushed and cleared his throat, mentally running the whole incident through his mind until he found what he thought would be the beginning of the chase'.  
  
"When I pulled into the mouth of the alley, I saw an African-American male standing there."  
  
He pointed to a spot about three-quarters of the way down the alley, a few feet in front of the dumpster. A large pool of semi-moist blood bore silent witness to some horrible event having taken place there in the last hour. Decker had a feeling that none of that blood would pan out as belonging to the girl.  
  
"He was just standing there, Lieutenant. I couldn't see his wounds. I mean, I thought he had his hands in front of him, ya know? He didn't seem to be in any distress."  
  
Decker nodded, silently relieving Wilson of any guilt he might feel at not having realized the man was a victim and not a perpetrator.  
  
"The report had said shots fired' so I unholstered my weapon...," Decker smiled. You could always tell a rookie by the way he talked. Unholstered my weapon' instead of pulled my gun'. "...identified myself and started cautiously down the alley. I told the suspect to raise his hands and turn around."  
  
His color, which had improved considerably, started another downhill slide. Decker really didn't want to wait around while the kid lost more of his last donuts and coffee so he prodded him a little. "Did you see anyone else in the alley?"  
  
The patrolman quickly looked away, mumbling, "No, sir." Decker had been lied to enough in his life to know one when he saw it, and Wilson wasn't even good at it. But why would this fresh-faced kid hand him a big one now? Replacing his notepad in his suit, he lowered his voice and wrapped one arm around the boy's shoulders in an attempt to incite confidentiality.  
  
"Off the record. What do you think you saw?"  
  
A blush once again colored the boy's pale skin. He spoke so quietly the Lieutenant had to lean closer to make out his words. "I've been trying to convince myself that it was a trick of the light or something, but... My patrol car's lights lit up this alley like daylight, sir. Just after I pulled up, something big and black flew from behind that dumpster up," he pointed, "onto the roof of that building."  
  
Decker's brows drew together into a deep frown. He mentally traced the path Wilson had indicated something big and black' had taken. That would have been about an eight-story jump. But the kid seemed on the up and up so he'd play it straight for the time being, and ream somebody later if his leg was getting pulled.  
  
"How big? Could it have been a bird, or maybe a cat?" Decker grimaced. Here he was handing the kid Poe's Raven or super-pussy and telling himself he was playing it straight. God, he needed a cup of coffee!  
  
"No, sir. It was about the size...sir, I think it was a man. A man wearing some kind of long, black coat."  
  
He uttered a very unmanly giggle that bordered too close to hysteria for Decker's liking. His voice rose slightly as he continued. "Or a cape. I guess it could have been a black cape."  
  
Decker tightened his hand on Wilson's shoulder, hardening his voice to its most stern.  
  
"Get hold of yourself, Wilson."  
  
Bobbie took a deep breath, then nodded sharply. When next he spoke, his voice had regained a semblance of normality.  
  
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Maybe you're right. I guess it could've been a big cat."  
  
The Lieutenant nodded, releasing the patrolman and turning back to the scene.  
  
Decker didn't buy one ounce of super-pussy. Wilson's tone had made it clear that he wanted, needed, to believe, so he would, but that wasn't Decker's style.  
  
After telling the supervising officer to keep the scene as undisturbed as possible till forensics was finished, Lieutenant Decker walked to the front of the building. With an expression that stated clearly he would rather drink sour milk than do this, he flashed his badge at the heavy-set woman inside the ticket cage of the adult' theater. She smiled knowingly and licked too-red lips. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, reminding himself that this, too, was one of the people he had sworn to protect and serve'.  
  
"What's the quickest way to the roof of this building, ma'am."  
  
Surprise showed in her close-set, bulging eyes. Her hand fluttered near her face like a dying bird.  
  
"No comprendez."  
  
Decker looked at the ground, hissing through gritted teeth. "Great, just great!"  
  
He jabbed his index finger toward the sky, desperately searching his admittedly poor reserves of Spanish for the right word.  
  
"Tejanos?"  
  
The woman's blank stare twisted to complete confusion. He searched his memory of high school Spanish again, then grimaced as he realized he had just asked the poor woman for a pair of jeans.  
  
"Tejado?"  
  
She smiled warily, her lack of faith in his sanity obvious, and pointed at the door to the theater, then to her left. Decker hoped he was interpreting that correctly as go through the door and to your right.' If not, he'd just hunt around till he found the damn stairs by himself! He nodded, said "Gracias" and walked through the door. Bowing to the necessity of letting his eyes adjust to the dark, he stood just inside the closed door and stared straight ahead, making a point of not looking at the stage in the middle of the large, smoke-filled room. He knew what he'd see there - naked women enticing desperate men to put their hard earned dollar bills in places money had never been intended to go. He sincerely hoped he never got so hard-up for female companionship that he had to seek it out in one of these places. He'd prefer someone just shoot him.  
  
Watching the wall on his right, he came upon a half-open door. Carefully pulling it completely open, he found what he had been seeking stairs ascending to the roof. He took a penlight from his jacket pocket, switched it on and placed it in his mouth to light his way. Always on the cautious side, he pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and slipped off the safety. With the weapon held in front of his chest, he slowly climbed the stairs.  
  
As he climbed Decker realized he was missing the usual smells that emanated from stairwells left open for more than two minutes in this neighborhood. No urine, no vomit, even the smoke was less noticeable here. That had to mean that access to these stairs was usually restricted. So why had the door been open tonight? In the penlight's beam Decker saw something wet on the stair above him. He leaned closer to confirm his suspicion. That was blood, fresh blood.  
  
There was more of it leading up the stairs. Keeping his bare hands off the bannister so as not to destroy evidence, Decker continued to climb. He knew he'd reached the roof when he noticed light shining in through the open doorway. That set off more alarms in his skull. By law, the roof's fire door was to be kept closed at all times. Smut palaces like this were usually pretty careful about that kind of thing. They had enough chances of getting shut down without giving the law any easy ones.  
  
He approached the exit carefully, listening for the slightest sound.  
  
Nothing, complete silence. Just his own breathing, a little heavier than he would have liked, and the soft pad of his shoes as he stepped into the doorway. The first thing he noticed was that the fire door was not only open, it was gone, the remains of the tattered metal doorframe glinting in the moonlight like tiny daggers. He cautiously shone his penlight on the ground at his feet, then followed a trail of tiny red drops across the roof.  
  
By the edge that faced the alley where the attacks had occurred, there was a small puddle. Though he was too far from it to be certain, in his gut Decker knew it was blood.  
  
His instincts, those untrained naturals that had kept him alive more times than he would care to count, telling him that the assailant was long gone, Decker holstered his gun and stepped out onto the roof. He sucked a deep, disturbed breath through clenched teeth as he saw the firedoor lying a few feet from the exit. The metal door was bent and mangled, as though a furious animal had vented its fury upon it. As Decker went to the edge of the roof to get the attention of the officers below and get forensics up here, he wondered if that wasn't one hell of an accurate analogy. 


End file.
